


A Meeting

by EuterpesChild



Series: Brighton Beach Lesbians [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Brighton - Freeform, Case Fic, Crack, F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!Sherlock, Fluff, Gen, Punk Sherlock, location porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 13:41:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8403844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EuterpesChild/pseuds/EuterpesChild
Summary: Sherlock and Jon meet in Brighton one summer day, and tiny adventures ensue.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The entire reason I write femlock is due to Fox queerwatson, so go read all of their fics because they're incredible.

Sherlock Holmes had moved to Brighton because of her mother, and stayed because of the eclectic queer culture that pervaded the city.

 

Jon Watson had moved to Brighton because everywhere else was wrong, and stayed because of Sherlock Holmes.

 

* * *

 

            Sherlock lounged outside Angel Food, idly licking the frosting off a gluten-free vanilla cupcake, bored out of her mind. She had had nothing to do for almost a week now, and watching the evolving culture of the fly colony in the corner of her flatshare had, astonishingly, lost its appeal. Now she was standing, unimpressed, on a dull grey Sunday afternoon, staring down a street cluttered with tourists, just waiting for something to happen. It was August, though, so nothing ever did.

 

            And then something did happen.

 

            Down between the punk t-shirt shop and the fake-Middle Eastern clothiers, a commotion had broken out. Accents from America, Italy, and someplace Northern were shouting atop each other, but Sherlock could still make out the words “wallet” and “cheat” and “fuck you”. She shoved the remainder of the cupcake into her mouth and took off running, darting easily between the bewildered shoppers to reach the source of the commotion. As she arrived on the scene, a blonde butch and a middle-aged Italian man were yelling incoherently, but she could see a younger man (dyed brunet, Californian, source of ruckus) trying to run from them but getting trapped by the growing crowd of gawkers.

            “Is that him?” Sherlock tried to make her voice heard over the commotion.

            “Yes,” from the Northern butch, “but what- “

            Sherlock had already taken off after him. She was distantly aware of the woman running after her, but she was too intent upon the supposed thief to really care. She pulled up her mental map of the area, and tried to figure out which way he was likely to be heading. Towards the waterfront, likely, but- she reassessed his direction as she caught a glimpse of the confusion on his face, and cut down an alley to head him off.

            The sound of boaters behind her momentarily distracted her from her quarry, but flopping brunet waves and a cartilage ring got her back on track in front of a popular ice cream shop.

 

            Sherlock chased the boy all the way down to the shingle, heedless of traffic and the woman cursing behind her, and grabbed hold when he stopped helplessly in front of the tiny carousel, looking for a way out.

            “Give it here,” she demanded, barely winded and holding her hand out commandingly.

            “Who- what-” the tourist stammered, his accent as windswept as his hair.

            “What did you take?” Sherlock asked again. “Give it to me.”

            As the other pursuant finally came to a stop on the pavement and bent double, the Californian reluctantly handed over a leather wallet and jade amulet, looking confused and sheepish.

            “Is that all?” Sherlock bullied.

            After a long pause, the man handed over a bum bag, cigarette carton, and windproof lighter as well.

            “Thank you,” she smiled, breezy and effortless now that the deed was done. “Don’t do it again, and I won’t tell the police. The rest of the pier is that way if you want a place to waste the rest of your money.” She pointed over her shoulder to the neon sign, and after a final terrified glance, he scuttled off.

            Sherlock now turned to the woman still standing behind her, waiting for some sort of comment.

            She didn’t have long to wait.

            “What the hell was that?”

 

            Sherlock knew what kind of figure she cut: long limbs stretched into ripped jeans and a jersey crop top over a skintight Henley, all hectic green curls and piercings and blue eyeliner and intellect and arrogance in a near-6-foot package. So it wasn’t that the shorter woman was staring at her that surprised her. No, it was the exhilaration coming off her in waves, pure adrenaline mixed with confusion and admiration and maybe a little bit of fear. Sherlock took her in quickly: blonde, from around the Northern border, stocky and butch but in an endearing sort of way, 24 at a guess with medical training and a hint of military –

            “Why did you go running after a perfect stranger? And how did you know what he’d stolen?”

            “You wouldn’t have had a purse but he had creases where a bumbag would’ve buckled, I was expecting a cutpurse at this time of day and year, you’re the type that keeps a sentimental jewelry piece but nothing too ostentatious – from a grandmother then passed down when your mother died, you smoke but pretend you don’t, that area is popular for thieves,” she paused for breath, and one side of her lips quirked up into a smirk, “plus I speak Italian.”

            The woman had her jaw slack and hanging slightly open, but after taking a moment to process, she burst into laughter, the sound ricocheting off the shops beside them. When she could breathe enough, she stuck out a sun-roughened palm. “Jon Watson.”

            Sherlock shook it, grinning back. “Sherlock Holmes. I’ve a spare bedroom behind North Laine when your bedsit is up for renewal tomorrow.”

            Jon’s hand remained limply in Sherlock’s as if she’d forgotten about it while Sherlock spoke. “How-?”

            Sherlock winked at her. “That would be telling.”

            Jon laughed, startled and intrigued.

            “Come on,” Sherlock proffered her elbow. “Let’s return these valuables to the obnoxious Italian man and have a drink. Ever been to Scoop and Crumb?”

            “What?” Jon asked eloquently, still giggling.

            “Best tea you’ll ever have. Come on!”

 

Sherlock took off running up the stairs, leaving no choice but for Jon to follow, which she did, shaking her head a bit at the madwoman she was apparently going to move in and go on a date with, probably in that order. Brighton had been promised as being not boring, and it looked like it was going to fulfil that expectation in more ways than Jon had ever imagined.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this purely because the day I spent in Brighton this summer was the best day of my life, and I wanted to revisit the joy I felt in that city through fem!lock. This is pure unadulterated location porn, but I'm planning to eventually make it a series with legitimate cases and explorations of their relationship.  
> If you have any ideas for future plot points, leave them in the comments! Otherwise, enjoy my self-indulgement of the beautiful gay punk beach city that is Brighton, Sussex, UK.


End file.
